When Tinsel Attacks
by She's a Star
Summary: . . . Christmas Decorating Gone Horribly Awry. "You try putting up tinsel when Peeves has got the other end and is trying to strangle you with it," said Ron.


**When Tinsel Attacks**

Christmas Decorating Gone Horribly Awry . . .__

_By She's a Star_

**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. But then again, who doesn't know that? Or perhaps I'm being insensitive. *waves to all of those living under rocks*

. . . how, precisely, does one get internet access living under a rock?

Hmm. Tricky.

**Author's Note:** I wrote this for a Secret Santa fic exchange I did with a few friends and fellow writers; this is for Chelsey. (Girl in Midair on Ff.N) Sorry that it took me so long to finally get it done – hope your holidays were wonderful, and happy New Year!

*

_"You try putting up tinsel when Peeves has got the other end and is trying to strangle you with it," said Ron._

-Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, p. 451 (American edition)

*

            It wasn't as though Ron didn't _like_ Hermione, or anything.

            Because he did. 'Course he did – she was one of his best friends after all. Yeah, sure, she drove him mental on occasion, but all in all, she was all right. Or more than all right, if you wanted to get thoughtful about it. If you wanted to get thoughtful about it, he'd even go so far as to say that she was . . .

            But the point was, he wasn't going to get thoughtful about it, because it was six in the morning on Saturday, and he wanted to do nothing but sleep. Thinking was altogether too much work.

            Hermione, however, didn't seem quite aware of that.

            She was so much of a morning person it was eerie, really. When she had burst into the boys' dormitory already fully dressed in her robes and Gryffindor scarf and demanding that he serenade her with Spell on My Heart by Celestina Warbeck, Ron had tried to argue that it was way too early to singing – not to mention that he didn't sing. Ever. But she'd been insistent, and so he finally capitulated, only to find that he couldn't remember any of the words. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew this was odd, as Spell on My Heart had been Ginny's favourite song a few years ago and he'd been forced to listen to it roughly six million times. It wasn't like his memory was that lousy. He'd tried to stop the whole singing idea right about then, but Hermione had looked at him with that frosty glare she got sometimes, and so he'd warbled his way through it, inventing random lyrics about Dobby and Quidditch matches.

            Apparently, this hadn't been enough to satisfy Hermione, as she was now hurling questions at him like Bludgers.

            "Ron," she said, very seriously, "I need to know what's happening with our relationship."

            "Relationship?" He couldn't remember any relationship. Sure, sometimes – or a little more than sometimes – he'd fantasized about one, but as far as he knew, nothing had actually _happened_ that would lead in that direction. Of course, his newfound memory loss could be due to the fact that it was _six o'clock_ in the bloody morning_._

            "Don't be stupid," Hermione ordered briskly. "You know those pink earmuffs that Dumbledore likes – now, what's going on between is?"

            "You lost me at the pink earmuffs."

            Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "Ron, I need to know what's going on!"

            "Hey, hold on a second!" Ron said defensively. "You can't get mad at me! I haven't got any idea what you're going on about in the first place!"

            "Do you know, I might forgive you if you bought me a bottle of perfume for Christmas," Hermione said thoughtfully, before seeming to realize that they had strayed from the original topic. "Now, Ron – what's going on between us? Where is this relationship going?"

            Thoroughly confused – and still a bit bewildered about the Dumbledore's earmuffs comment – Ron attempted to pull shut the curtains around his four-poster and hide his head under his pillow. Hermione, however, wouldn't have it. He heard the curtains pull open.

            "Ron . . . Ron, get _up_ . . . Ron, we're going to be late. _Ron_!"

            Ron sat up, exasperated. "I don't _know_ where our bloody relationship is going, Hermione. Could we discuss this some other time?"

            Hermione raised an eyebrow at him.

            "Don't look at me like that," Ron snapped. "You're the one who brought it up. And what the hell were you saying about Dumbledore's earmuffs . . .?"

            Hermione continued to stare skeptically, and only then did Ron notice that she was, in fact, not wearing her Hogwarts robes and a Gryffindor scarf, but jeans and a red sweater with her Prefect's Badge pinned to it.

            Oh. So he had been dreaming the entire bizarre conversation, then.

            And, in that funny way fate had, Hermione had happened to be in the room when he woke up.

            Great.

            "Er," Ron said, and felt his ears heat up. "Never mind."

            Hermione watched him for a second more before standing up and saying, "Right then. Get dressed."

            She flung open his trunk and began digging through his clothes.

            "Huh?" he asked blankly. "Hermione, there's no classes today. Remember that little thing called the weekend?"

            "I know that, you twit," Hermione said impatiently. "We're supposed to help decorate the castle today, don't you remember?"

            Oh. Right. That.

            . . . he was drawing a complete blank.

            Prefects' duties, he assumed, on account of the fact that Harry was still fast asleep and had apparently missed out on the Saturday morning wake-up call from hell that was Hermione Granger.

            "Yeah," Ron said uneasily after a moment. "Of course I remember."

            "I didn't think you would," Hermione replied, irritated. "Really, Ron, when are you going to start taking this more seriously? You're a Prefect now; you're setting an example for the younger students. You have to be more responsible."

            Responsible; that word seemed to be a popular one with Hermione, and had been ever since they'd received their badges.

            Ron was getting just a little bit sick of it.

            "I _am responsible," he grumbled, pulling himself out of bed._

            Hermione gave him a look.

            "What? I _am. Just not as responsible as you, 's all. Which is probably unhealthy, by the way." He stretched his arms over his head and yawned, when something occurred to him. "Hey – what are you doing in here, anyway? Girls aren't allowed."_

            "Otherwise, you would've slept till noon," Hermione replied brusquely. "And I'm hardly about to decorate the entire left wing of the first floor by myself."

            She slammed a pair of jeans and an orange sweater into his chest. "Now, hurry up. I'll be waiting in the common room."

            Ron grunted noncommittally in reply. Clearly annoyed, Hermione rolled her eyes and stomped out of the room.

            Decorating the castle. Yeah, this definitely wasn't his idea of an ideal morning. At least it was only one wing on the first floor. That wouldn't take long. No more than a half an hour, he supposed.

            "And then," Ron muttered to himself, casting one last longing glance at his bed, "I'm going back to sleep, whether she likes it or not."

*

            Well, this was certainly a more intimidating prospect than she'd first expected.

            "Damn," Ron said in a low voice, the curse word echoing throughout the torch-lit corridor for a moment before bouncing back at them.

            Much as she disapproved of his language – or maybe just approved of chastising him; it was something to ponder – Hermione felt inclined to agree with him. She had been expecting an hour at most, but she hadn't quite realized how large this floor was.

            Not to mention cold. And filled with the unpleasant possibility of running into Snape.

            Hermione found herself wishing she'd brought a jacket.

            Professor Sinistra, who had given all the Prefects last-minute instructions at the main staircase before allowing them to go their separate ways, was approaching with a rather unpleasantly large amount of garlands, ornaments, and other Christmas decorations trailing behind her in thin air.

            "Well, this is just bloody fantastic," muttered Ron sarcastically.

            "It's our duty as prefects," Hermione reminded him, but secretly found herself agreeing.

            "Okay," Professor Sinistra said as she approached them; she flicked her wand casually behind her, and the decorations fell gently to the floor. "People probably won't be really up and about for another two hours, so you won't be disrupted. Besides," she added after glancing around the unappealingly dark corridor, "I doubt anyone will be down here to begin with."

            "Do we really _need_ decorations down here?" Ron asked hopefully. Oh, really. It was just like him to try to weasel his way out of it.

            Professor Sinistra wrinkled her nose. "Personally, I don't think so. But Professor McGonagall's the one who organized this, not me. I'm sure you guys will be fine."

            "Yes," Hermione agreed, nodding.

            Ron stared, looking faintly dismayed. Hermione sensed that he was on the verge of contradicting Professor Sinistra, so she elbowed him lightly in the stomach.

            "Uh. Yeah," he said unconvincingly.

            "All right," Sinistra said, smiling at them. "Enjoy yourselves."

            "Oh, we will," Ron said sarcastically.

            Hermione glared at him.

            "And just a bit of advice," continued Sinistra, leaning in and assuming a confidential tone. "Try to avoid Snape. He's particularly unpleasant around this time of year."

            Hermione, who wasn't at all used to listening to teachers talk somewhat negatively about their colleagues, stared awkwardly for a moment before nodding. Ron, on the other hand, replied with a heartfelt "No kidding."

            Professor Sinistra grinned at him and then turned and walked out of the dark corridor. Hermione rather wished that she could follow her.

            But no. She felt a bit ashamed of herself even beginning to take on a negative attitude about this. After all, she had wanted very much to be a prefect ever since her first year at Hogwarts, and now just because one of the jobs was a bit . . . undesirable, it didn't mean that she was allowed to begin thinking like Ron.

            "So," she said, attempting enthusiasm, "where to start?"

            "How about by ditching this entire thing?" Ron suggested.

            Hermione glared at him. "We can't do that!"

            "Why not?" asked Ron defiantly.

            Honestly.

            "Because!" Hermione retorted heatedly. "We have a-"

            "Yeah, yeah." Ron cut her off with a wave of his hand. "Responsibility. I know. I don't know why I even bothered to ask."

            Hmph. He was completely unbearable sometimes.

            "Well, if you didn't always neglect your duties, then maybe I wouldn't have-"

            "Hey," Ron interrupted. "Let's not get into this, okay? We may as well just get to work."

            Hermione couldn't help but stare at him in surprise for a moment. A few months ago, Ron would have bickered right back at her until he'd gone blue in the face. Now, he was being wise and putting an end to one of their quarrels before it had even properly begun. Could it be possible that he was actually becoming mature?

            She didn't know if she dared hope.

            Because if he _was_ more mature, then maybe he would figure out . . .

            Certain things.

            That she really didn't need to be thinking about right now.

            "All right," Hermione agreed, and gave him a small smile.

            Ron smiled back, in a rather embarrassed, lopsided sort of way. Hermione felt her cheeks flushing a bit. Goodness, he could be so adorable at times-

            "Pretty ickle prefects!" a thoroughly unwelcome voice exclaimed with a cackle. Ron groaned. "Where ever is wee Potty?"

            "Bugger off, Peeves," Ron ordered.

            "Oooh – naughty language from the weasel! I might have to tell Professor Snape, I might."

            Hermione took a deep breath in an attempt to compose herself.

            "Peeves," she said, as politely as she could manage, "we're about to begin a bit of a project right now, and it would be really helpful if you could go . . . you know, bug some other people for an hour or two."

            "Oh, great, Hermione," Ron muttered sarcastically. "I'm sure you've totally changed his mind now."

            Hermione ignored him. "You know, Draco and Pansy are over on the fourth floor. You could drop a vase on his head, or-"

            Peeves simply cackled.

            ". . . I'll take that as a no, then," Hermione said, rather disappointed.

            "You know, Peeves," Ron threw in, making another valiant attempt. "We saw the Bloody Baron heading down here a few minutes ago. He'll probably be back any time now . . ."

            Peeves considered this for a moment before seeming to come to the conclusion that fleeing to safety was necessary. With a very offensive hand gesture, he sped off, still laughing to himself.

            "Oh, fantastic, Ron," Hermione said sharply. "Now if he finds out that we lied to him, he'll be even more of a nuisance."

            "Hey – I got rid of him, didn't I?" Ron retorted defensively.

            . . . Oh. Well, he had a bit of a point there.

            But she wasn't about to let him know that. He would probably gloat, and she hated it when he did that.

            "Okay," she said, placing her hands on her hips and eyeing the corridor critically. "Where are we going to start?"

            Ron was quiet for a moment, his brow furrowed thoughtfully as he stared down at the array of Christmas decorations. Hermione felt another little stab of affection for him.

            "How 'bout we start with some tinsel," he finally suggested, reaching for a golden strand of it. "And—"

            His further plans, however, weren't revealed. Hermione couldn't blame him, as it was probably a bit difficult to talk when a rogue piece of tinsel was attempting to twist itself around your neck.

            "Ron!" she cried, rushing over to him.

            He let out a strange choking noise in response.

            "Oh," she muttered, agonized, as a flurry of spells sped through her mind. Well, she supposed she could try a stunning spell of some sort, but that would wind up hitting Ron as well- why on earth had they been given possessed tinsel, anyhow? It certainly wasn't very . . .

            A devious cackle sliced through the air, and something dawned on Hermione.

            "Ah," she murmured to herself. "So it isn't the tinsel, then." In a louder voice, she continued. "Peeves!"

            She knew that she didn't have the slightest bit of authority over the poltergeist, but she figured she should at least attempt to stop him from strangling her best friend. Ron, however, managed to maneuver his way out of the lethal Christmas decoration and glared at the tinsel as it hovered in the air.

            "Peeves," he rasped, reminding Hermione a bit of Filch. "You get your invisible arse out of here right now or I'm going to Dumbledore, you hear that? Yeah, that's right-"

            The tinsel dropped to the floor, and Peeves reappeared and pulled a face at them before gliding off down the corridor. The Grey Lady, who happened to be drifting by, wrinkled her nose distastefully at him before continuing on her way.

            "That . . . damned . . . poltergeist," Ron continued croakily. "One of these days, someone's going to have to get rid of him . . ."

            The Filch likeness was uncanny, really.

            Despite herself, Hermione began to giggle.

            "What you laughing at??" Ron demanded, clearly affronted.

            "Nothing," she replied, attempting to compose herself. No good. Laughter still managed to escape from her lips, quite against her will.

            "You're _laughing __at me??" Ron exclaimed in angry disbelief. "Hermione, I was just nearly strangled to death by a bloody poltergeist and a piece of tinsel! You could at least show _some_ sympathy instead of laughing like a lunatic."_

            "I'm not laughing like a lunatic!" Hermione protested.

            Unfortunately, her argument was rendered a bit unconvincing by the fact that she was laughing like a lunatic.

            Ron glared at her.

            "I'm sorry!" she exclaimed earnestly, and took a few deep breaths. All right. Composure regained. "It was just . . . funny."

            "Yeah," Ron grumbled. "Maybe if you have a crap sense of humor."

            Oh, dear. She seemed to have made him genuinely angry.

            Well, this was certainly going to be non-stop fun, with a chilly, unnaturally large corridor to decorate in the company of her best friend who very well might stop speaking to her at any moment.

            She absently knelt down and reached for a sprig of mistletoe at the same time Ron did; their hands brushed lightly together, and he yanked his away at once.

            She sighed exasperatedly. "Ron . . ."

            "What?" he asked dully.

            "Don't be like that," she instructed him sternly. "This project will take twice as long if we're not speaking."

            "Didn't say we weren't," Ron responded in the same monotone.

            "Well, you're making it a bit clear that you don't want to talk to me," Hermione said. "And it's for a stupid reason, too. Ron, I was just laughing-"

            Ron scowled and started to stand up. Feeling a flash of irritation, Hermione grabbed his hand and yanked him back down to his knees.

            "Ow! _Blimey_, Hermione-"

            "Look at me when I talk to you," Hermione ordered. "Really, Ron, you act like such a child sometimes-"

            "At least I'm not acting like a bloody parent! You just used my mum's favourite line in the whole English language-"

            "Well, seeing as she raised you, I can see why she had to use it so many times-"

            "That's enough. I'm sick of this," Ron announced, and stood up jerkily. Hermione was pulled up right along with him, and she found this strange for a split-second before realizing that their fingers were still entwined.

            Um. Oh.

            She looked down at their hands for a moment, feeling oddly transfixed. It was funny. His hands were clumsy, and calloused – from all the time he spent outside practicing Quidditch, she guessed – and covered in carefully scattered freckles. Hers were a shade paler and still slightly smudged with ink that had smeared all over her hand while she'd been writing out a quick rough draft of her Astronomy essay.

            It didn't look entirely wrong, her hand wrapped up in his.

            She glanced up at him, suddenly feeling very embarrassed, to see that he was staring down at their fingers as well.

            "Um," she said, unable to think of anything even remotely intelligent.

            He looked up; his ears were red enough to put the Gryffindor Tower décor to shame.

            "Er," he replied.

            Well, this was certainly a riveting conversation.

            "We should-"

            "Get to work," he finished.

            "Yes," she agreed, nodding fervently.

            They stood in silence for a moment, not quite looking at one another, before she slipped her hand away from his.

            "Sorry," she muttered to the floor.

            "'S okay," he told the tapestry behind her.

            She gave him a small smile which he rather awkwardly returned, and then reached for a string of garland.

            Her hand was tingling, and as she set off to work, she wondered precisely _how insane she was to be reviewing in her mind the positive effects of homicidal tinsel._

_THE END_


End file.
